


Skeletons in the Closet

by Zhie



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bunniverse, Unforgettable Interlude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 19:45:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11065845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie
Summary: Glorfindel finds something he was never meant to see.





	Skeletons in the Closet

**Author's Note:**

> This had to incorporate the following:
> 
> Story Notes:  
> O67  
> In a Manner of Speaking: Skeletons in the Closet  
> Favorite Couples: Galadriel/Celeorn
> 
> O68  
> Favorite Couples: Ecthelion/Glorfindel
> 
> B10  
> Quenya and Sindarin: Nothlir
> 
> N33  
> Life Events: Childhood  
> Games People Play: Tournament  
> Textures: Coarse
> 
> N31  
> Games People Play: Mancala
> 
> O65  
> First Lines: The towers of...  
> Author's Chapter Notes:  
> This just kept getting longer and darker... this also fits somewhere in book one of 'Unforgettable'

The towers of each house aspired above the morning mist; austere towers of steel and cement and limestone, sturdy as cliffs and delicate as silver rods. At the center of them was the tallest of all towers in Gondolin, that of King Turgon himself. It was upon the balcony of this tower that he looked down upon his entire realm, including the tournament that was about to begin. From this height, the breezes cooled him, and Idril as well, and allowed him the comforts of home with the ability to know the winners, for each time someone was removed from the ranks of the competitors, their banner was lowered.

By noonday, four houses were still in competition, with no end in sight. On the field, there was a dilemma that was far more pressing than the sun that beat down upon them.

Rog waved over the group of youths who were retrieving the spent arrows and setting targets throughout the morning. “Do you have any more arrows?”

“Nay,” replied Duilin’s squire, and several others as well.

“I have some at my barracks,” said Ecthelion. “Let me call for my lieutenant.”

“I can get them,” offered Glorfindel. He hopped down from the wooden bench he had been resting upon. Though no one from the House of the Golden Flower, not even himself, was still competing, he had stayed for the sake of etiquette. Now he welcomed the excuse for escape to some place cooler, if only temporary.

“They should be in my office. The bench by the window; just lift the lid,” called out Ecthelion as Glorfindel jogged off. The Lord of the Fountain continued to joke with Rog and Salgant for several minutes before he instantly paled and looked across the field. Glorfindel was already gone. He handed his bow to Rog with a hasty apology and took off, sprinting past several others who asked if he was well. He ignored them all, reaching the barracks to find the door open. “Glorfindel, wait!” he shouted in one last desperate attempt.

He heard no answer, and hung his head, assuming the worst as he made his way in and ascended to the second level. Here, too, the door was open at the end of the long room that housed some seventy to eighty soldiers. None of them were here, thankfully – everyone who was anyone was at the festival tournament. Ecthelion took a deep breath before he continued across the room, the sound of his own footsteps pounding in his ears.

When he entered, he saw that the arrows had been removed and were upon the desk in several bundles. Also at the desk was Glorfindel, hunched over a large piece of parchment. It had been rolled up and tossed hastily upon the arrows. Glorfindel would have to move it to get to the arrows, and under the arrows, there was something else. Ecthelion held his breath as he approached, hoping that what he had in the bottom of the chest had remained unseen.

“So you know.” Glorfindel looked up without raising his head. Siently Ecthelion nodded. “How long?”

“Since you arrived,” he admitted.

He looked back down. “Does Turgon know?”

“I cannot speak for the King,” evaded Ecthelion. “Although… Celebrimbor... he met you as a child. You probably do not remember. But then, he is in the family.” Ecthelion traced his finger along the parchment, showing the trail of the names.

Glorfindel skimmed the Nothlir of Finwe and pointed to several other names. “So, you, Rog, Salgant.. all of you are connected to this.”

“Most of us are,” confirmed Ecthelion. “Turgon is very trusting of family and very suspicious of outsiders. You know that.”

“So he does know.”

Ecthelion gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. “Dammit, Glorfindel, you spoke like a prince when you showed up. You look like your father. Even then, still a youth, attempting to pass as an adult, you looked like him.” He ground his molars, then added when the silence maddened him, “Your uncle sent a letter to Turgon.”

Glorfindel’s head snapped up. “When?”

“You were only here a few months when it arrived. He suspected from the trail you left and after speaking with Finrod as to where we were that you might end up here. Your aunt, Galadriel, had a dream about it. Do you remember her? She is a terribly independent lady – makes Aredhel look demure.”

“Not… really.” Glorfindel drummed his fingers, unsure of the change of topic. “I recall a woman who was fair, but taller than my mother. She had a very quiet husband – I remember him much better. I recall liking him more than I did my blood relations. He paid attention to me, asked me how I was doing. His hands were not coarse like every other adult I knew; he spent time in my father’s study writing while the others gathered for conversation and mancala in the parlor, or watched me dig holes to look for worms while the others played horseshoes in the yard.

“He was tall, and picked me up to set me on his shoulder so that I could see the world beyond the hedges that went over my head. When my father saw him do that, he scolded him and dragged me into the house, and after that I never saw him or my aunt again.”

“Celeborn. Quite the youngling compared to her. They were residing in Doriath, but I believe they had plans to move to Nargothrond, last I heard.” Ecthelion licked his lips. “Well. We should return.” He picked up the bundles of arrows in one swoop. “Come, we can speak of this more later.”

“Why is your sword stained with blood?”

So he had seen it. Ecthelion’s shoulders slumped. “My answer will disappoint you.”

“I already know the answer.” He sighed, placing the family tree back into the chest with the sword. “I think I was just hoping I was wrong.”

Ecthelion bowed his head. “For what it is worth,” he said as Glorfindel walked past him with a bundle of arrows, “It was my own kin I killed.”

Glorfindel turned and waited for the rest of the story.

“I was on the shore, watching it all. I could not believe the reports, and indeed, they were lies. Then, as I watched, doing nothing, I saw a boy climbing up to the crow’s nest. He was terrified – perhaps about the age you were when you arrived here. There was already blood in his silver hair, and there were Noldor climbing the posts and the sails, their bloodied knives held in their teeth.

“I could not stand and watch them kill a child, and so, I sprang forth, and I hunted my own kind as I had often hunted deer and boar in the forests of my homeland, only I was more savage this time. I hewed off hands, feet, and whole limbs. I slashed one of their faces open, and only later realized it was a woman. When I reached the top, I asked the boy his name, and he told me. I told him to jump, that he could swim beneath the pier if he was careful and hide there, for the other path was no longer safe.”

They stood in silence, until Ecthelion picked up the other bundle of arrows and took it to Glorfindel. “They will come looking if you do not return soon. Ask them to excuse me and tell them I forfeit. I have not place among them at the tournament; I am not worthy to earn any title other than kinslayer.”

Unsure of how to answer, Glorfindel accepted the other arrows and nodded his head slowly. He made to leave, then turned back. “The boy you saved – the one on the ship. Do you know if he survived?”

“Yes,” confirmed Ecthelion. “You know him, in fact.”

“I do?”

Ecthelion nodded as he sat down. “His name is on the very document you saw in that chest, though he no longer calls himself Teleporno.”

From the height of the tower’s balcony, Turgon could see much. He watched with concern as Glorfindel finally emerged from the barracks, looking several times over his shoulder as he went. He was halfway back to the tournament when Turgon saw Ecthelion defeatedly exit. He studied his friend and distant cousin, ignorant of the idle chatter between Idril and Aredhel.

As if knowing he was being watched, Ecthelion raised his head, shielding his eyes to catch a glimpse of the King with his hands upon the rail looking down at him. Even from such a great distance, the expression on Ecthelion’s face was clear to Turgon. The King looked away, focusing once more upon the view of his temporary haven.


End file.
